


Submission

by Tentabot (orphan_account)



Series: (Don't) Touch Me [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Second Person, Trans Male Character, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 17:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10391694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tentabot
Summary: You pretend to not be awake for it because being awake makes it more real. If you’re asleep it can just be a dream to you. If you’re asleep maybe you can forgive him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Vent fic. Warning to those who empathize strongly with POV characters.
> 
> Mirror posted [here](http://brandnameboy.tumblr.com/post/158651822974/nsfw)
> 
> Minor editing done.

_“I don’t want to have sex tonight.”_

_“Then when?”_

_“Maybe next time.”_

_“You always say that.”_

_“Maybe next time…”_

* * *

 

When morning light filters through the blinds, all that can be seen are few roofs peeking from a thick fog. It’s blinding, the cold grey of the sky, and so you turn over with a groan and bury yourself in your pillow. From behind, your partner stirs, wraps his arms around you, and so begins the slow rocking against your ass you’ve grown accustomed to. Every day. Every time you’re in bed with him.

You tolerate it, only just. Regrettably, sharps breaths escape you and it’s taken as arousal. You aren’t aroused, however, but the force of a thrust against you knocks the tired, stale air out of your lungs and you try to shuffle your hips away. It only works momentarily, as it usually does, and when it’s obvious that you’re making no effort in this your partner rolls over with a huff of frustration and disappointment and prepares to get ready for work.

Under your breath, you sigh softly to yourself, glad that it’s over, and then go back to sleep.

 

You wonder why you feel so positively to not be touched anymore. You used to love it. Loved it when you were caressed and cared for, your urges sated as you both topple together in a post-coital glow, enjoying the stars passing by the window behind. You used to smile at each other, naked and damp with cold sweat, holding each other regardless.

Now, you can’t stand to meet his eyes. Wish that your movements aren’t taken as consent for objectification.

They still will be. You know. Every step you take, a jut of your hips will be noticed. Every casual lean on the couch, the column of your neck is exposed. When you dress for the day or undress for the night, you’re bare to the world and to him and you have to convince yourself one of two options: 1) You either want all eyes on you, the soft of your ass and the smooth of your thighs and even the gentle curve of your chest, or 2) You aren’t doing it on purpose and want nothing more than to go to sleep because you have work in the morning.

 

You shower, as is normal of your morning routine, and when your dress your partner is behind you in an instant, grabbing at your hips and pushing you over the bed. Again, another clothed thrust, and again, another noise ripped reluctantly from your throat that is held tight while you try to keep yourself up.

You hate how the arousal builds slowly but surely, and how your face loses itself in the bedsheets while you feel something round tease your heat with pushes that aren’t rough but aren’t gentle either.

“Stop,” is all you say, low and thick with fatigue, as you swat away your partner and resume getting dressed.

“Sorry,” is the simple apology with no added effort to being apologetic about his actions.

 

At work, you can smile. And laugh. But that’s all. When a co-worker leans on you, your muscles spasm beneath the contact before stiffening, but no one notes this behavior because they don’t notice it to begin with. And when you find yourself even nudging a friend you become self aware of your own body. Is your smile too flirty? Are you exposing too much of your skin? Your lips are dry but if you lick them will it be taken the wrong way? When you step from one foot to another, is your hip jutting out provocatively? You don’t mean for it to appear that way-

The thoughts rush as the nudge passes as just a brief social interaction. No one has eyes of hunger on you. And if they do, you don’t notice behind your own eyes of paranoia.

 

When you arrive back home, he seeks a kiss. You say on the cheek. He wants one on the lips. One the cheek, you push. On the lips, he prods. And so, you give in and you’re scared that it will turn into something too amorous for your liking. You don’t want to feel a tongue press in, make you gasp against your wishes, and spur him on. But when you close your eyes in preparation for all the sensations you don’t want, all you receive is a peck.

When he leaves, you release a sigh, and go to cooking dinner. It’s calming, you think. Or maybe you convince yourself. And slowly, your anxiety slips as music plays from a phone dock you have on the kitchen benchtop. Onions sizzle away in a pan, drowning in butter, while you seasons two steaks. You’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t cook for him.

You smile as you begins to sear the meat, only checking for a moment on the packet alfredo pasta you have going in a pot to his right. You allow yourself small relaxed movements, like the swaying from side to side, and you can even hum to yourself. It’s so simple but it makes you so happy to be in your element. To feel like a person just cooking dinner after work.

 

Of course it crashes down when he enters, a swagger in his step as he takes his place behind you. It’s meant to be innocent, apparently, but you stiffen in all the wrong ways and try to pull from your partner’s embrace.

“I’m cooking,” you murmur, nudging him away.

“I just want a hug,” is the reply, and your shoulders drop in resignation as you just let him. Just a hug. But you can feel his erection press up against you and knows that for him it’s not just a hug.

 

You find yourself dreading going to bed.

You’re tired, though, and you deserve the rest, so soon you’re in the comforts of pillows and blankets.

You finds yourself dreading going to sleep.

You’re exhausted, though, and it calls for you even when you feel the bed dip and he joins you in it.

He tries to rile you, successful as his hands find the buds on your chest and he tweaks them, earning a moan you don’t want to hear from yourself.

“You have work early tomorrow,” you remind him, “And you said you were tired.”

“This’ll help me go to sleep,” he says, voice thick with arousal as his erection, achingly hard and pressed up to your thigh, twitches as if eager to be in you.

“Good night,” you say with tired finality, and turn over to bury yourself deeper in your pillows and blankets.

He’s grunts.

And your eyes slip shut.

 

You don’t know how late it is but you do know that sleep still drags heavy on your eyelids and you toss over to the other side with a grunt and a yawn. Something is stirring you awake. It’s annoying and drives you crazy and makes your head throb but you just want to sleep-

A mouth catches your nipples, sucks on them roughly, and warmth floods your sex as your thighs tighten instinctively. Your lips part in a hot breath and a pitchy keen resounds from the back of your throat.

You know what’s going on.

It’s obvious when a hand roughens the other side of your chest while the other rubs at your front, slipping under your boxers. You can hear the panting from him, feel the harshness on your chest, and try and toss and turn in an unconscious haze so as to get him off of you.

You have work.

He has work.

You’re tired.

You hate every noise you make as he sucks just right, just the way your body likes it, but you hold no interest in doing anything. Your brain is fried, overworking and throbbing, and you want nothing more than to sleep. You hate even more how turned on you are as his fingers penetrate you with only the slow trickle of your arousal as lubricant.

You’re honestly not even aroused enough to take anything, stinging as his fingers push deeper until you feel his knuckle meet your outer flesh, but he continues with only one goal in mind and you just lie there, awake with eyes shut, wanting him to stop. Wishing he would stop.

You don’t stop him.

Like every argument you’ve had in the past few months, you give up.

You could wake up right now, berate him in a sleep-thick voice, and then leave it at that as he licks the wounds of rejection, but you know he’ll only try again.

So you sleep. Or you pretend to, at least. Just like how you pretend to enjoy it, focusing on the physical rather than the thoughts running rampant in your head. You pretend to not be awake for it because being awake makes it more real. If you’re asleep it can just be a dream to you. If you’re asleep maybe you can forgive him.

In the end, you always do when he does things like this.

You make it look realistic, like your body is stirring in tired arousal but not to the point of waking. Your arms are over your head, one forearm crossed over your eyes so he doesn’t see them peeking open to remember where you are. Because you’re not there where something like this happened once before.

You’re not at a friend’s party, staying the night sleeping on a mattress you puked on while your friend’s cousin takes off your binder and slips a hand down your pants while you’re asleep. You’re not there, when his fingers brush across and spark something pleasurable despite how much you don’t want it. Not with him. No when you have a boyfriend-

Who is doing the exact same thing.

You feel him pressing into you - not his fingers, but his actual cock. He’s stripped you and turned you on your side so that he can not only more easily slide in but so he can bury himself most painfully to the hilt.The thing is, it doesn’t hurt like you think it should. You don’t feel torn in two but you feel empty as your muscles quake and he thrusts repeatedly and roughly in.

He comes, a quiet groan leaving him, and pulls out to roll over and lay next to you. You don’t wait too long to act as if you’re stretching to find a comfortable position. And when he returns to pull your boxers back up and the blankets back over you, you pretend that his cold sweat doesn’t disgust you when he wraps his arms around you.

 

You don’t wake up to a cock pressed against your ass. You wake up to morning fog and a heavy head. You remember the nights events though you don’t want to. When you sit up, even from the bed you can make out the latex carelessly thrown over the edge of the bin.

Your head hits against your pillow like a weight being tossed on it and you go back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This could be part of a series of assorted vent fics to be honest. Maybe a happy ending in the future? Who knows. 
> 
> Further honesty: I sort of want to abandon this fic - just write it out and then ditch it. But for some reason that feels wrong, possibly because it's an experience that hits almost so close to home that it scuffed the paint.
> 
> Anyway, stay safe. Later.   
> -  
> Edit: Orphaning to detach this from my main AO3 account. If you'd like to view the related fics you can find them on my NSFW blog: [brandnameboy](http://brandnameboy.tumblr.com). Sorry for the inconvenience. Continue to stay safe. Adieu.


End file.
